


Like Glitter and Gold

by Beelieve



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: And Fun Was Had By All, Angst, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Gross abuse of tropes, M/M, Mistaken identities, Multi, Orgy Masquerades, Pining, Voyeurism Out the Wazoo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24577921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beelieve/pseuds/Beelieve
Summary: Everyone ismorein Ard Carraigh: more beautiful, moretempting. Whatever one wants, the magic grants. Geralt could break through the glamour’s hold, should he so wish, but he knows the spell also protects him from the scrutiny of the other guests. They can't see him truly bare. One look at his scars and his mutations—hisfaults—and it’s over. He dares not risk any suspicion regarding his place here. No, the magic will hold—he'll make sure of it.(Or: Geralt attends an annual masquerade and catches feelings forJaskiera guest. AKA, the ten thousandth Witcher orgy fic nobody asked for.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Other(s)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 123





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

  
In Ard Carraigh the bodies flow freely.

Like the aimless currents of a river, the party guests meander idly through the growing crowd, revelrous pleasure their only objective as they flit about the palace courtyard. There’s no theme to this particular masquerade, Geralt knows. The costumes and masks—though garish in their ridiculous splendor—are all diverse and richly made. Even those clad in more modest attire have spared no expense, offsetting their austere costumes with jeweled bracelets and chunky gold rings to showcase their wealth, least they be mistaken for anyone _lesser—_ anyone _inferior_.

Gods help them if they ever find out they’ve been cavorting with a witcher.

_Fucking one, too._

Geralt smirks.

Not that they’ll ever find out.

With his dark clothing and plain mask, Geralt knows he’s a poor match for their spectacle. His hair, normally loose, is pulled back beneath the hood of his velvet cloak, while his worn boots—scuffed and stained after years of hard travel—are now covered by a set of new leather gaiters. He’s spent money, certainly; several hundred ducats alone on the cloak, all of which could have gone toward horse feed or potions or boarding. It’s still a pittance though, compared to the finery around him. He’ll never be mistaken for a wealthy man in his threadbare highwayman costume.

But that doesn’t mean he’s _unremarkable._ An _enigmatic_ man, he’s found _,_ makes for a far more interesting bedfellow than a rich one. If the furtive looks he’s been receiving over the past hour are any indication, he won’t have to worry about his choice of partners this evening.

He never does.

It’s been nearly five years since Geralt’s set foot in this particular courtyard, and little has changed: the same nude statues of long-dead Kaedwen royalty; the same uncomfortable stone benches and winding pathways that lead in endless circles; the same stench of opulent perfumes. The hedges have changed, he supposes. Grown another head taller, as hedges are wont to do. Leaves and branches reaching desperately toward the sky as though seeking a way to ascend their earthly roots; to _escape_.

These hedges have seen quite a _lot_ , over the years. He’d probably want to escape, too.

An oversized fountain bubbles in the center of the courtyard, speckled koi bobbing at the waterline. Above them a marble statue of King Henselt’s great grandfather looms large, welcoming the party-goers with a stately, constipated frown. He at least has the decency to wear breeches. It’s royal tradition, Geralt recalls, the masquerades started long before even he himself was born. Perhaps the old king had started it all—opened the debaucherous floodgates himself, so to speak. Still, more than a century or so later, Geralt wonders what the man would think about it all now. Destined to spend his afterlife peering over the garden walls—witnessing the depravity of his descendants, but never participating.

_Probably jealously,_ Geralt thinks. He passes the fountain, watching as the fish scuffle over an unlucky cricket. _The lecherous dead bastard._

It’s a lovely night for a walk in Ard Carraigh.

A lovelier night for _other_ things, as well.

Flower-lined footpaths branch off in several directions from the fountain, all leading back to the cavernous garden in question. The entrance, flanked by stone trellises draped with ivy and star jasmine, is lit by a pair of floating lanterns. Within their bronze casings the unnatural blue flames flicker wildly, their magic-infused warmth keeping the crisp spring air at bay. More lanterns line the inner pathways, softer blues and greens up front, with a handful of reds and yellows burning deeper within. Each flame enchanted to burn indefinitely until dawn.

Daybreak, of course, is far from everyone's mind.

As the sunlight begins to dim into bruised darkness, the crowd grows ever quieter. The mindless banter slows as the last of the guests trickle into the courtyard. Those already present eye the newcomers with rapt attention; masked specters, all of them, watching and waiting for the last remnants of natural light to finally fade.

Geralt avoids their gazes.

He should be bold on a night like this. There’s no reason to wait; to hold back. But a familiar unease takes root in his gut. He’s attuned to every glance, to every murmur of conversation around him. Waiting, as always, for the whispers to begin; for the heated, vitriolic glares to burn against his neck. Waits for them to realize who he is— _what_ he is—and turn their ire upon him.

And yet, the magic holds.

It always holds.

Geralt doesn’t wear his medallion here, the risk of exposure too great. But even without its steady weight humming against his chest, he can sense the glamour hovering over the courtyard—sense the way it ebbs and flows between those in attendance. He sees how their features shift subtly in the lanternlight, depending on their mood. On _his_ mood.

Not everything here is real.

It’s simple magic. Or, at least, _simpler_ magic.

This isn’t the first time Geralt’s experienced it, particularly within the confines of a bustling royal court. Places where beauty, not unlike power, wields its own type of influence. Everyone who stands before him now is _real_ , there are no false faces or outright lies, but the glamour _enhances_ everything it touches. Faces and bodies, already beautiful, suddenly gifted with _more_. Such heightened appeal works both ways, of course. The power of the glamour belongs to the beholder—but it’s as equally beneficial to the beholden. Obfuscating identifies, twisting and enhancing features to protect those who wish to remain nameless, remain _unseen_.

For Geralt, the spell is a means of concealment: his hair, his eyes, his _witcherness_. A cosmetic veneer of untruths, carefully chosen. He’s not sure what they see, when the guests set their gaze upon him, but they don’t flinch away. It’s enough, whatever it is.

_Simple_ magic, certainly, but incredibly potent.

It hadn’t been easy to accept, in the beginning.

The first time Geralt had been in Ard Carraigh proper, King Henselt’s son had been an infant. Now Téan stands fully grown—nearly 50 and just as charming, just as _attractive_ , as he’d been in his youth. The prince had become quite smitten with him some years earlier, when Geralt had been hired by the court to remove a particularly nasty pack of drowners dwelling in their sewers. Téan’s invitation to the kingdom’s yearly soiree, open to the rich and powerful of Kaedwen and the surrounding realms, had been extended as a lark—a _dare_ , even—after Geralt had ignored the prince’s initial overtures. _Oh, you must come,_ Téan had purred, fluttering his lashes as he’d eyed Geralt’s ichor-crusted armor. _You’ll make a kingly addition._

Geralt had already received his coin for the job by then. As far as he’d been concerned, all debts had been paid in full. _And yet._ The invitation, insisted the boy—all of 21 and oozing princely boredom—was to be Geralt’s gift _,_ his _reward_. Geralt had known the offer had been made out of lustful charity, out of _jest_ , but he’d refused to cow to the prince’s certainty that a witcher must be a monster both inside _and_ out.

So, Geralt had stayed.

Namely out of spite.

_Mostly_ out of spite.

He’d had no such excuses the following year.

So close to Kaer Morhen, he hadn’t thought about the consequences. After months of wintering, worn down by the tedium of training and mixing potions, and the absence of intimate touch, it had been too easy to let the Path guide him back to Ard Carraigh in the spring. Too easy to let himself fall into selfishness; to hedonism. If Téan had ever been surprised by Geralt's regularity over the intervening decades, he’d been gracious enough not to show it, always greeting Geralt with the same salacious, knowing grin. Although Geralt still spurns the man’s actual advances, too proud to ever give into _that_ , he’s reminded the crown prince on more than one occasion that he’s always free to _watch_ , should he feel so inclined. _As a_ _reward, of course._

A laugh cuts through the quiet, followed quickly by the _clink_ of glasses.

The sun has set.

Geralt watches the crowd begin to shift closer to the garden, splitting off into pairs or smaller groups. He can sense their anticipation—can _smell_ it. The scent of pheromones, of _lust,_ starts to spike, permeating the courtyard. It’s heady, and only growing stronger, nearly overpowering the floral scents rising from the garden. It’s almost a welcome change from the otherwise biting aroma of incense. Large urns of it burn incessantly throughout the courtyard—resinous juniper and spicy anise stinging the back of his throat. Both are aphrodisiacs, according to Kaedwenian lore, though he’s never found any truth to it. Still, it’s pleasant enough in small doses, thick and cloying like spiced cider. It reminds him of winters in—

A man clears his throat.

Geralt turns, finding he’s no longer alone.

The stranger smiles and tips his chalice in greeting, eyes flickering behind his mask. He’s short and thin, with curly blond hair that frames his face—not Geralt’s usual type, but hardly displeasing. He eyes the man a moment, liking what he sees, but when the man takes a step forward, gait unsteady, Geralt hesitates and scents the air again. Even here, surrounded by so much excess, he still prefers a partner who’s sober enough to at least remember their encounter in the morning.

Geralt shakes his head, his interest lost.

The man frowns at the sudden rejection, clearly unused to being turned down, but he doesn’t press or beg, he simply shrugs and moves on, the stench of wine trailing behind him. It takes nearly a minute for it to fade.

Geralt sighs.

He doesn’t _quite_ blame the man for over-indulging.

Although he usually prefers ale, Geralt can’t deny that the wine tonight is good. Better than _good,_ really. Probably the best he’s had in years— _decades_ , even. On a table nearby, a dozen pitchers of it sit cooling in a crystal trough filled with ice, each vintage just as sweet and fragrant as the next. There’s clearly been no expense spared to import it from as far as Toussaint or Metinna. Even the ice itself has likely been teleported in by the court’s mage, extracted from some far-off arctic plane and then heavily enchanted to keep it frozen.

It’s all so absurdly decadent it almost, _almost_ , makes Geralt laugh.

He shouldn’t need such pageantry, not when any decent brothel would do, but there’s always been something about the freedom—the _anonymity_ —of this place. An obscurity he’s grown to covert. Here, on this night, awash in unending indulgence, Geralt isn’t a witcher: he’s a mutant playing at being a man. Playing at being _normal_. Soon enough he’ll be back to monsters and money and miles of empty road, but not tonight. Tonight he’s just…

_Almost human._

Geralt steps forward, eyeing the courtyard once more.

Téan curates his guest list well, as always.

Everyone is _more_ in Ard Carraigh: more beautiful, more _tempting_. Whatever one wants, the magic grants. Geralt could break through the glamour’s hold, should he wish, but he knows the spell also protects him from the scrutiny of the others. They cannot see him truly bare. One look at his scars and his mutations—his _faults—_ and it’s over. He dares not risk any suspicion regarding his place here.

No, the magic will hold.

He'll make sure of it.

It’s not long before someone new approaches. The scent of rose perfume is followed quickly by the gentle brush of fingertips against his back. A red-haired woman in a green cloak watches him through a silver fox mask, her lips painted a deep crimson. She grins, beckoning him, and Geralt finds no reason not to follow _. There are no_ _witchers in this place,_ he reminds the magic.

Reminds _himself._

She smiles again, taking his hand.

Guiding him into the garden, the woman leads Geralt down a pathway toward one of the larger grottos. Their appearance doesn’t bother the other revelers already there, spread across lounge chairs or tangled together in comfortable nests made out of bedding and pillows. Although there are smaller alcoves for the more _discerning_ guests, as well as silk-strewn tents that close—or don’t close—depending on the whims of those involved, Geralt has seen plenty of guests never partake in any activities themselves. Some are content to merely watch, browsing the tents like scholars in a library, seeking their pleasures from afar.

The woman makes no qualms about what she wants, sprawling herself upon a large ottoman and unlacing her cloak to reveal nothing underneath. She pulls Geralt forward, first to his knees and then lower still, and he spends the next several minutes with his tongue against her clit. As she writhes beneath him, taking her pleasure, Geralt finds his eyes wandering.

It’s darker here than in the courtyard, fewer lanterns to light the garden itself. A more private place, certainly, though Geralt sees almost as well. His eyes flicker upward, gazing over the woman’s breasts, and his attention is drawn to two men entering the grotto. Their fingers brush casually as they make for a lounger set against the far hedge. The shorter of the two is older, his long dark hair and toned build familiar to Geralt. He’s been in Ard Carraigh at least twice before.

The younger man is new, however.

Geralt’s quite sure of it.

A gilded mask covers the man’s eyes and cheeks, the curved edge dipping down over his nose. His tousled chestnut hair, streaked with amber highlights, is mostly hidden by a crown of auburn feathers lining the top of his mask. Orange and yellow poppies are tucked among the feathers, the fiery imagery ostentatious but clearly purposeful _._ _A sun_ _deity_ , Geralt thinks, oddly impressed. _Out of the old Redanian pantheon._

Lanternlight licks at the man’s pale skin, casting shadows against the golden whorls of paint streaked across his bare torso. There’s glitter caught in his chest hair, and more still sprinkled into the lighter hair dusting his thighs. His trim waist is draped in a gold sarong, short and slit high up the left side, the sheer fabric leaving little— _if_ _anything—_ to the imagination of what lies beneath its wavy folds.

_A god, made_ _flesh and bone._

Geralt’s more certain than ever he’s never seen the man here.

And _yet_.

There’s a moment—an infinitesimal moment—when the stranger feels so _familiar_ that Geralt senses the glamour fighting back against his doubt. It’s not possible, of course. He’s months gone from Posada. Months gone from a silly bard with grand ideas, intent on using Geralt as his own personal stepping stone to success. The palace courtyard of Ard Carraigh is no place for a bard, at least not _this_ night. And certainly not the orenless bard Geralt once saw plucking bread from the vomit-stained floors of a backwater tavern.

No, it’s _not_ him.

Jaskier is far, far from Ard Carraigh.

But, _still._

_Sweet Melitele, what if—_

The older man draws the godling forward.

They cling to one another as they kiss, bodies pressing closer as their hands begin to roam. The angle of the kiss is impeded slightly by their masks, but neither seems to mind as their movements grow more heated. When the godling eventually pulls away, he grins and steps back, still panting a bit as he drapes himself lazily upon the lounger. His thighs spread in invitation, and the older man drops to his knees as if in prayer—as if the whole godsdamned temple has just opened up for him, and him alone.

The man noses beneath the fabric of the godling’s sarong, his profile now partially hidden by a curved, golden thigh. When the godling tilts his head back, Geralt fixates on the long line of his throat—on the way his adam’s apple shifts when his partner finally takes him into his mouth. The younger man extends his arms above his head, gripping desperately at the back of the lounger as his hips thrust upward, unabashed in his pleasure. He moans raggedly as his partner’s head lowers, and then lowers still, his hands grasping tightly at the godling’s hips.

Geralt’s cock twitches in interest.

_Well, fuck_.

Distracted by the sight before him, he finds his tongue inadvertently slowing.

The woman under him shifts, her fingers dragging through Geralt's hair, pushing back his hood as she pulls him closer, grinding down against him. Geralt growls, the need to touch himself so sudden he fumbles awkwardly with his lacings as he draws his cock out. He strokes himself, relieving the pressure, and the woman gasps as Geralt’s tongue plunges into her cunt with renewed abandon.

When his eyes drift back to the lounger, Geralt finds that _he’s_ the one now being watched.

He can’t quite make out the godling’s eyes, even with his modified sight, but he can _feel_ the stranger’s attention. His mask is tilted subtly in Geralt’s direction, not outright staring but close enough, and Geralt knows the man can’t see much at this angle, just the top of Geralt’s head and the obscene movement of his arm. With his free hand Geralt reaches out, running his fingers along the woman’s throat and down to her breasts, grazing her nipples with idleswipes of his thumb.

What a sight he must be, Geralt thinks, tucked between the thighs of a beautiful woman but unable to tear his gaze away from the young god before him.

The man must notice the challenge in Geralt’s eyes. He grins, nearly imperceptible, but Geralt catches it nevertheless. As if in retaliation, the godling slides an open palm down against his partner’s cheek, fingertips trailing upward to card slowly through his hair. When he draws the older man forward, he lifts his thighs, knees now set against the man’s broad shoulders. It sends a surge of _want_ straight through Geralt. He imagines trading places. Imagines the feel of gold glitter scrapping against his tongue as he sucks the godling to completion. Imagines his lips and his fingers and his—

The woman above him groans loudly.

_First things first, then._

Geralt laps at her, and she trembles, her orgasm peaking. When she eventually stills, sated and panting, Geralt sits back on his haunches, his cock still gripped tightly in his hand. He thumbs at the moisture beading at the tip, spreading it down his shaft to ease the way. It’s not _enough_ , but it will do. The godling can probably see how _worked_ _up_ Geralt is, nothing hidden from view as he strokes himself. Even in the darkness, he can probably see the gleam of wetness still staining Geralt’s chin. He must know what it is exactly Geralt _needs._

Geralt licks his lips, savoring the taste.

The man whimpers, soft and breathy, and Geralt smirks.

_Sing for me, little god._

There’s an erratic hitch to the godling’s breathing now. He turns his head away from Geralt, leaning farther back as his hips rise up in quick, shuddering movements. Geralt watches the way his taut stomach flutters, how his inhales grows ever shakier; he’s _close,_ so very close. The man bites at his bottom lip, worrying at the soft flesh, and Geralt doesn’t know if it’s to keep himself quiet, or to stave off his release just a moment longer.

His godling turns back to him, in the end.

He stares at Geralt, _unwavering_ , chasing their last few moments. Geralt does the same, his hand sliding against his cock with little thought but completion. He needs... he’s ready, he just needs... he needs...

_fuck_

_oh fuck_

The man comes with a reedy moan, back arching off the lounger.

Geralt follows a heartbeat later.

  
* * *

  
After tucking himself back into his breeches, Geralt stands.

The woman leaves quickly, patting him once on the cheek but offering little in the way of reciprocation. Not that he needs it, after the holy display he’s just witnessed, but he’s already half-hard again, the _want_ still twisting inside him. He knows it will only be a few minutes before his full stamina returns. His godling is more thoughtful than the woman, it seems, currently helping his own partner to his release, clever fingers working their way into the older man’s body. He doesn’t react when Geralt leaves the garden.

Geralt doesn’t take offense.

He eats and he drinks, and he finds another willing partner.

He _waits._

Later, when his godling finally returns to the courtyard, his costume back in order, Geralt tries not to let his eyes linger. He must fail quite spectacularly, however, as the man catches him not a moment later staring at his pert arse. He grins at Geralt over his shoulder, trapped in a conversation with a woman who looks to have no interest in sharing. His godling’s eyes shine brightly behind his mask, and Geralt looks away, fingers tightening around his wine chalice.

_His eyes are blue_ , Geralt thinks, offhandedly. Followed quickly by: _Fuck_. _His eyes are blue._

He can feel the magic shift around him, tendrils of doubt and hope coiling in his mind. _And why wouldn’t they be?_ it whispers, as sweet as honey. As sweet as his godling’s moans. _Isn’t that what you want?_

Geralt clenches his jaw.

_Fuck._

_No._

_Gods, no._

When his godling starts to pull away from the woman, his intention on Geralt clear, Geralt finds himself turning in a sudden panic, downing the last of his wine. He sets the chalice onto a nearby table and walks toward the garden, slipping into the arms of the next person who offers him a friendly smile. If his godling looks disappointed, Geralt only catches a moment of it.

He walks away, yes; but there’s no escaping his thoughts. There’s also no escaping the other man, it seems—not on a night like this. It becomes somewhat of an unintentional game after that. Avoiding each other, while simultaneously _not;_ dancing around his godling in every hidden corner of the garden, and his godling doing the same. Furtive glances and hooded eyes following every new movement, every new _partner_.

When Geralt leads a woman to an open tent later that night, he doesn’t shut the flap. He fucks her, watching as his godling pleasures two women on a chaise outside, each of them eventually climbing onto his lap in intervals, off and on, until the last one—

_fuck_

Geralt misses the end.

He grunts, spending himself inside the woman as she continues to lazily thrust down against him. He flips her over with a growl, using his fingers until she screams out and goes limp, her thighs tight around his waist. When he turns back, staring out into the darkness that hovers over the garden, seeking a reaction, a _retaliation_ , Geralt instead finds his godling gone.

He doesn’t see him again the rest of the night.

As Geralt saddles Roach in the morning, he tells himself it’s probably for the best.

  
* * *  
  
  
Two months later, when Jaskier plops down on a bench across from Geralt in an Upper Aedirnian tavern, the bard grins widely, happily, his face flushed from a particularly exuberant performance. His ale sloshes precariously in its tankard.

“Why _hello_ , stranger. It’s been an absolute age.”

“ _Hmm_.”

“Verbose as usual, I see. How have you been, Geralt?”

Geralt pulls his dinner bowl closer, watching as steam curls over the serrated rim. He picks up his spoon.

“Fine.”

“Oh, really?” Jaskier smirks, leaning closer. “Just _fine_? No interesting adventures to share?”

_If you only fucking knew._

“No,” Geralt mumbles.

He shifts, trying not to think about golden thighs.

Needing a distraction, Geralt shoves a heaping spoonful of rabbit goulash into his mouth. He’s hard-pressed not to notice Jaskier’s suddenly pinched expression, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he ignores the bard for another three spoonfuls, chewing thoughtfully. _Slowly_. By the time he’s taken his fourth mouthful, Jaskier finally seems to get the message.

The bard deflates a bit, looking suddenly tired as his hands wrap around his tankard. There’s dirt under his fingernails and a fine layer of road dust covering his doublet, Geralt realizes. He clearly hasn’t bathed in several days, though he’s done what he can to cover the stale odor of sweat. More so than most people in the tavern that night, anyway. There’s still even a faint hint of juniper perfume hovering over him. Geralt had smelled the same perfume in Posada.

When Jaskier takes a drink of his ale, his eyes flicker toward the table. It’s all a bit too downtrodden, even for Geralt’s tastes.

He sighs.

In the uncomfortable silence between them, Geralt slides forward an extra spoon he’s taken from his satchel. He’s not even that hungry, really. And there’s enough goulash to share.

_For tonight, anyway._

_But just tonight._

  
  


* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not saying it IS Jaskier, but if it was... Jaskier is clearly jacked. (I'll be taking no further questions.)


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

  
It’s two years before Geralt returns to Ard Carraigh.

He tells himself it’s because he’s been busy—and he _has_. There’s no denying the uptick in work, no denying the sudden excess of contracts that, if not _exactly_ lucrative, are far more plentiful than in years past. His earnings stretch farther now. Lean weeks that would have once seen him scrambling for work now made bearable by the extra coin still lining his pockets. All because of a song.

_Oh, that fucking song._

Geralt hasn’t found peace since Posada.

For three years the bard’s infantile lyrics have stalked him, village to township to city; the titular lyricist himself always a few weeks or months ahead, planting his musical germs of half-truths. Wherever Geralt goes, it seems, some remnant of the song floats about like dandelion seeds in a breeze. Washerwomen hum it over their soapy tubs. Two-penny minstrels with voices like broken glass bellow it in the markets. Two weeks ago, an alderman in Ruuń had quoted the lyrics before trying, and failing, to toss Geralt a purse of crowns, hitting a passing rooster instead.

He’d been chased out of many villages before—though never by a vindictive cock.

_Always a first._

Geralt had vowed long ago to never tell Jaskier how much money he’d made from the song.

He’d even done a halfway decent job of avoiding the bard—and that particular conversation—for at least a year after they’d shared a meal in Upper Aedirn. At the time, eight months of no contact hadn’t surprised him. He’d always imagined Jaskier holed up in some fancy tavern in Novigrad or Vizima, basking in his own newfound celebrity.

Geralt hadn’t expected to find him in the outskirts of the Pontar Valley.

 _Hells._ Geralt hadn’t expected to find _himself_ in the outskirts of the Pontar Valley.

It had stormed the entire job. Days and days of nothing but rain and wind and mud up to his arse as he’d cleared an infestation of ghouls from a paupers graveyard near Kor. He hadn’t planned on staying the night, but the local inn had been warm and oddly inviting, and it had served the best spiced pheasant pie this side of Aedirn.

Geralt had been halfway through his second pie by the time he’d recognized Jaskier’s familiar tenor over the din of the squall outside.

He’d sang _the_ _song_ , of course.

Then others, thankfully.

Geralt had ignored him, but the crowd hadn’t. They’d actually seemed to be enjoying themselves. For almost an hour he’d watched them clap their hands and stomp their feet, their interest in the bard’s growing repertoire clearly genuine. They’d _liked_ Jaskier. And yet, his lute case had remained shockingly bare. A few stray orens and coppers, a bouquet of pink yarrows, two apples—nothing remarkably worthwhile. He’d have been lucky to get a tankard of ale from the meager bounty; a room had been out of the question.

The coin purse against Geralt's hip had felt unbearably heavy.

He’d watched the bard offer the crowd a smile—undeniably gracious, if a bit stilted—then hurry to pack his things. He’d slipped out the back door a moment later.

Geralt hadn’t thought twice about following.

He probably should have, considering the weather, but by the time he’d realized he had no idea where the bard was going, he’d already pulled up his hood and stepped out into the storm. Although the rain had washed away any scent of the man, it hadn’t taken Geralt long to notice the line of muddy footprints leading to the stables nearby.

Geralt had stood inside the entrance, raindrops sliding off his hood as he’d eyed the stalls. Three had stood empty, though the fourth had contained not only Geralt’s own horse, but his missing bard as well. Roach had snorted, noticing the intrusion. She hadn’t let that keep her from the yarrow bouquet in Jaskier’s hand, however. Even though she had only nipped casually at the flowers, clearly in no hurry, the barn had smelled _suspiciously_ of apples. Roach had never been above a bit of blatant bribery—not when she reaped the rewards.

She and Jaskier had always been a little alike in that.

Thunder had rolled loudly in the distance, the worst of the storm finally abating as he’d watched Jaskier a moment longer, taking note of the satchel, lute case, and bedroll sitting in the adjacent stall. The bard hadn’t looked up yet, but Geralt knew he’d been spotted. Given the way Jaskier had avoided Geralt’s corner of the dining room all night, he’d known the witcher was in town long before he had set about spoiling his horse.

Jaskier had patted Roach’s neck fondly before glancing over his shoulder.

“Geralt! Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

“Hmm.”

“Ghouls treating you well, I hope? I’d heard you--”

“Are you _sleeping_ here?”

Jaskier had winced at the bluntness, but his smile covered it quickly. “I’ve slept in worse places, _trust_ _me_. There was once this brothel in--”

“Come on,” Geralt had growled, turning back toward the entrance.

“Pardon?”

Realizing Jaskier hadn’t moved to follow, Geralt stopped just outside the door, mud gathering at his heels as he stood waiting. “I have a room.”

“I… _o_ _h_.”

The man had stilled, eyebrows suddenly raised. He’d looked weary, and a little cold, his wet hair barely dry and curling at the edges. But there had been a spark in his eyes. Geralt had balked at the sudden familiarity, the sudden _devilry_ in that gaze; at the thought of what it might be like, to see Jaskier as he’d imagined in Ard Carraigh, his _godling_. But then Geralt had blinked, and the image had faded. Only Jaskier had stood before him, tired and rain-soaked and too pretty for his own good, but just a man.

Geralt had sighed.

“There are _two_ beds, bard. Take it or leave it.”

Jaskier had glanced down, boots shifting nervously in the hay. Even masked by the horse shit, the stench of uncertainty had been unmistakable. The bard had reeked of rotten floral, like a wildflower freshly picked, alive and dying at the same time. Knowing that Jaskier had even _considered_ staying in a barn over staying with Geralt had stung, but he’d let it pass. He was different than the others but he was still _human._ When Jaskier had finally looked up again, understanding that Geralt was _serious,_ and wasn’t going to stand in the rain all night, he’d quickly grabbed his meager possessions and followed.

They had parted ways in the morning.

Months passed. The trees browned, and the air grew sharp. Geralt’s contracts had by then taken him back into the more populated areas of the Valley. Cities with proper brothels and bathhouses and cobblestone streets. Taverns where the ale hadn’t tasted like fermented cat piss.

And like a headache made flesh, there had been Jaskier.

Three bloody cities in a row.

Always chasing Geralt down to greet him with the same insufferable grin, the same insufferable talking. He’d had no qualms about butting into the witcher’s life, once the door had been opened. Geralt certainly hadn’t intended to open any fucking doors. It had simply... happened. Jaskier had _happened_ to him. Like an upset stomach, or a persistent wart, or a fucking _plague._

It became harder to avoid the bard after that. Harder to brush off his attempts at finagling stories out of Geralt, or asking to follow him on hunts. Harder to convince him to leave—that Geralt hadn’t wanted him there.

It had been mostly true.

Jaskier was impossible, at times. Cocky and bold and far too impertinent for someone so young. Someone who hadn’t experienced the worst of the Continent—of _humankind._ Who’d never learned to shut the fuck up, even when he slept.

And yet.

Geralt hadn’t turned him away.

He’d had a chance at every crossroad, the words sitting heavy on his tongue. For two years he’d griped and _hmmed_ and sniped at the bard for every little thing, but he’d never actually said it. _Leave. Fuck off. You’re not_ _wanted_ _._ Geralt had never figured out why. He had thought it had been the company at first—another presence to ease the tedium of long travel. Jaskier made him laugh, on occasion. And his ballads were pleasant enough, when they weren’t about _Geralt_. But it had never just been about companionship. Geralt had traveled alone for years. Decades and decades before the bard had even been born.

No, there had been a simpler answer.

A more _selfish_ answer.

He had been treated differently when Jaskier was around.

He’d known some of it was due to the songs— _the_ fucking song included—but there had been something about Jaskier’s presence. People were calmer around Geralt when the bard stood beside him. He would never claim they were _friendly_ , exactly, but they’d been at least distracted from their blind hatred. Placated by songs of bravery and adventures and grateful widows. Even on days when they _weren’t_ cordial, when Geralt found himself accosted by glares, Jaskier had remained, soothing and calming and trying his damnedest to change the room’s mood.

And, if that hadn’t worked, he’d never been above a little cursing.

A _lot_ of cursing.

The last time he’d seen Jaskier had been in Oxenfurt.

On their final day together, Geralt had walked in on the bard arguing with a tavern owner about the man’s untoward opinion about witchers in his establishment. Jaskier had subsequently taken his songs _—_ and his witcher _—_ to another more amenable tavern across the canal where nary a good word was sung about the _Toad_ _Hole_ ’s abominable services. The crowd had eaten up the gossip; gathered students cheering louder and louder upon each new bawdy verse.

Neither of them had wanted for drinks that night.

Geralt had moved on in the morning.

The ride to Kaer Morhen had been quiet, as usual. Quiet, but occasionally peppered with the sounds of his own humming, the jaunty lyrics to the _Toad’s Commode_ filling the empty miles. As he’d waited out the winter snow—tedious days spent training and repairing the keep—he’d found himself thinking about Oxenfurt. Thinking about how Jaskier’s eyes had fallen to Geralt, always Geralt, as the night progressed. Even with the pretty barmaid perched so comfortably in his lap, Jaskier’s attention had always returned to Geralt. He had left with her, eventually, after Geralt had turned his gaze away, eyes firmly set upon his tankard.

What might have happened, had he not been such a coward?

The thought had haunted him all winter.

Now, as Geralt scans the gathering crowd in the palace courtyard of Ard Carraigh, there are no songs and no monsters and no _bards,_ just a growing itch deep within his belly. His decision to return was a case of fortuitous timing. _Nothing more, just as always._ He tells himself that, at least for the first hour. Then a second.

After another hour passes, _well._

He knows he’s utterly fucked.

Geralt watches the partygoers with middling interest. There have always been guests he’s gravitated to over the years, and they to _him_ , but it’s never felt like _this_. It’s a fool’s errand, this waiting. This _hope_. All for one person who may or may not be there. Who reminds him so thoroughly of what he cannot have.

But still he waits.

And _waits_.

He’s not sulking—not exactly.

Downing the last of his wine, Geralt leans onto the balcony, staring into the stony valley below. He considers dropping his cup, just to see how far the pewter chalice will bounce against the rocks, but then thinks better of it, at least for the sake of the mountain goats he can hear bleating somewhere in the darkness. Eskel would have his head.

He’s hidden here, or mostly so. Tall stone columns holding up the overhang above the balcony obstruct his view of the courtyard, leaving him in relative peace. Geralt stares into the distance, pinpricks of light denoting the guardhouse of a nearby village. There’s another large township to the west, the battlements still ablaze with light, its citizens safe and hale at least for another night. There are few monsters left in Ard Carraigh. Geralt’s reasons for straying off the Path here grow lesser every year. Perhaps it’s time to finally move on. If he leaves now, he can get an early start tomorrow. Head south, this time, away from the—

“Hello.”

Geralt freezes.

_That voice._

He knows it’s the glamour. Knows the familiarity in that whispered word is just his mind fabricating what he wants; what he’s been _wishing_ for, the last few hours. It’s not Jaskier, because Jaskier isn’t _in_ Ard Carraigh. But Geralt wants him to be, and the magic fucking knows it. He swallows and turns, his secluded hideaway suddenly _alive_.

His sun godling is now a siren.

The man’s costume is somehow both _more_ and less elaborate than the last party. He wears only a simple cobalt tunic, the silk fabric tapered at the waist and encircled by a wide belt made of netting and delicate iridescent scales. The tunic covers him completely, arms and chest wrapped in silk, while the rest falls just past his knees. It’s sheer in all the wrong—nay, _right—_ places and Geralt finds himself momentarily lost for words as his eyes trail up the man’s lithe body. Along the top edge of his mask sits a row of seashells forming a crown against his hairline, while painted scales dot his neck and flecks of green and gold glitter color his hair and cheeks. All that makeup must have taken hours to finish; Geralt wonders idly if it itches. Somehow, the man’s eyes are even _bluer_ than they were two years ago.

His godling grins at him, parting his lips as if to speak, and Geralt tenses at the sudden realization that the magic, for as powerful as it is, can only do so much. It won’t be enough.

He _knows_ Jaskier’s voice.

The cadence of his words, the inflections, all as familiar to Geralt as breathing now. He knows when Jaskier is happy—when he’s _pretending_ to be happy to entertain a crowd—and when he’s too melancholy to actually tease. He knows how Jaskier’s voice rises in pitch when he’s drunk, and higher still when he’s _too_ drunk. Geralt’s other senses may be fooled. He may _see_ what he wants, he may smell the false notes of juniper perfume mixing with that of the incense hovering in the air, but no; not _that._

The magic can’t change _that_.

Once his godling speaks, Geralt knows the glamour won’t be strong enough.

He steps forward, before the man can finish _—_ before he can even begin. His thumb hovers over his godling’s mouth, brushing softly at the corner of his lips as Geralt shakes his head. “Don’t,” he says, _pleads_.

The man’s words catch in his throat. His head tilts in confusion, tufts of glittery hair hanging over the top of his mask. His eyes flicker across Geralt’s face, studying him, and for a moment Geralt worries he’ll leave, that he’ll simply find another, the demand for silence somehow spoiling the _fun._

And his godling could have anyone, Geralt knows. He’s seen the way the other guests look at him.

But Geralt can’t.

He _can’t._

Geralt moves closer, forcing the man back until he’s flush against the nearest column. He doesn’t want this particular illusion to break. Maybe later—maybe when he’s finally free of the clingy, talkative bard who’s stumbled into his life—but not tonight. Tonight he wants too much, the winter far too lonely.

Too fucking _quiet._

Geralt drops to his knees.

There’s a sharp inhale of breath as his hands wrap around his godling’s waist. The man watches him, choking back a soft moan as Geralt’s lips press against his taut stomach. He mouths at the sheer tunic, his godling’s skin so tantalizingly _close._ He smells of mulberry and angelica root, and something earthy, which Geralt suspects might be the paint.

His lips drag lower, sucking at the material that clings obscenely to the man’s hardening cock. Spicy arousal blossoms out around them—the scent mixed so heavily now with juniper and anise that Geralt knows he’ll never be able to associate those smells with anything else. Anything but this _moment_. He’s imagined this for so long. The feel of his godling, the taste of him, salty against Geralt’s tongue. Already so wet for him, so _ready_.

 _Fuck_.

Geralt blows against the sodden fabric, enjoying the way his godling shivers, hips twisting away from his palms. When he does it again, his grip unrelenting, the man makes a soft, broken noise that goes straight to Geralt’s cock. His godling rocks forward, this time _demanding_ attention, but Geralt only smirks. He leans back.

Geralt knows he’s a bastard on most days—today is certainly no different.

His godling whines in protest. Shaky hands scrabble against Geralt’s shoulders, trying to find purchase. When that doesn’t work, his fingers slide under Geralt’s hood instead, inadvertently dragging it back. Geralt tenses. This close, what will the man see, what will he _suspect,_ when Geralt’s silver hair tumbles free? He may not be a witcher in this place, but there’s no hiding the way he looks _—_ the magic his only defense. One slip of his concentration, one misplaced thought—

The fingers carding through Geralt’s hair slow, the touch softening as if somehow sensing his reluctance. He turns his head away, refusing to meet the man’s eyes. When his godling’s hands snake farther back, working at the leather band keeping his hair tied, Geralt lets it happen. He doesn’t look up when his hair falls. He waits to sense it: the confusion, the _fear._

The… nothing.

There’s no reaction from his godling, only the gentle curl of fingertips along his scalp. The man’s thumbs trace the edges of Geralt’s mask, palms cradling his cheeks. There’s no intent to the motion. No _hurry._ Nails scrap teasingly against his temples, and Geralt groans.

_Fuck that’s, that’s—_

_Nice._

This time, it’s his godling’s turn to smirk.

Geralt glares.

_The fucker._

He sits up straighter, hands falling from his godling’s waist. Geralt tugs at the man’s belt—nothing to gain from it but a show of strength, of _force,_ his cock now a hairsbreadth away from Geralt’s face. His godling chokes on his next breath, swallowing hard. Geralt’s fingers trail slowly down the silk tunic. When he finally lets them dip beneath the fabric, he skims his nails against the back of the man’s thighs before moving higher to caress at the soft skin below his shapely arse.

The grip in Geralt's hair tightens.

_Not yet, little god._

Geralt pulls his hands free.

His palms settle onto the man’s upper thighs once more, the heat beneath his fingertips replaced by cold silk. His godling is practically writhing now; Geralt isn’t much better himself. This close, the scent of arousal is so thick it makes his head spin. Geralt’s thumbs catch at the edge of the tunic, and he knows he can’t turn back now. Even if he wanted to save himself the shame of thinking of another, he can’t. Geralt lifts the costume, frenzied and uncoordinated, uncaring that he’s rumpled the delicate fabric.

His godling’s cock is lovely in the lanternlight.

Geralt ignores it to nose instead at the line of dark hair trailing down the man’s lower stomach. When he sucks a ruddy bruise into the curve of his hip, he can feel his godling’s hardness against his cheek. Flushed and warm, and fucking _perfect_. Bouncing slightly with each uneven breath as Geralt marks him. With quick hands, Geralt tucks the edge of the tunic into the costume’s belt, keeping it out of his way as his palms slide back around to knead at the man’s arse. As he does, he slips a finger between his godling’s cheeks, teasing at the seam of him.

_Fuck._

It’s too much, and not enough.

_Not nearly enough._

A breathy whine escapes his godling’s throat as Geralt takes him into his hand. He strokes him firmly once, then twice; eager to draw out more of those _unholy_ moans. He’s not disappointed. Geralt slides a thumb over the man’s leaking cockhead next, spreading the moisture gathered there while his other hand cups his balls, savoring the weight of him. When Geralt finally tastes his godling, licking a long stripe up the side of his length, the man keens so loudly Geralt knows the noise has carried to the rest of the courtyard. To the fucking _garden_ even.

_Let them listen._

Geralt doesn’t care. He wonders what _other_ noises he can extract from the man tonight. What other _places_ his fingers or his tongue might explore to garner such reactions. He has hours to find out.

Geralt grasps his godling’s arse again, finally taking him into his mouth. Deeper and deeper, until Geralt can feel him at the back of his throat. The man babbles something incoherent, words turning into whimpers as he raises back up, Geralt’s tongue dragging along his shaft. He can hear his godling’s racing heartbeat, the rhythm of it so suddenly _familiar_ it’s almost as if—

_No._

_It’s the magic. It’s the magic._

_It’s the—_

The hands in Geralt’s hair tighten again.

He expects the sting of pulled hair, but the hold relaxes, his godling’s roughness born more from surprise than any actual desire to hurt him. Geralt shifts his weight, feeling his own stiff cock against his breeches. _Fuck_. This shouldn’t be gentle. Gentle was for lovers, or whores paid in extra coin. Not for parties in Ard Carraigh. Not for _Geralt_. He sucks harder; his jaw beginning to ache. It wrenches a sound from deep within him, a low grumble he turns into a hum. The man squirms wildly at the sensation, the movement only forcing Geralt deeper.

He knows his godling is getting close.

Geralt can hear the moment the man’s breathing shifts. The warning grip on his hair now turns firm, _desperat_ _e_ _._ But Geralt only clings harder, his nose pressing into the man’s lower belly as he hollows his cheeks even further, taking as much of him as he can. He chokes on the feel of him, the _taste._ Doesn’t stop until he gets the reaction he’s hoping for—what they’re _both_ hoping for. His godling curls inward, trembling. _Undone_ _._ His ragged whimpers turned into a single hushed moan.

He spills heavy down the back of Geralt's throat.

Geralt swallows what he can, only pulling off when he senses the man’s pleasure edging toward discomfort. He sits back, running his tongue along his bottom lip, wiping away the remnants. His godling straightens, his legs unsteady under him. He’s still panting, as if Geralt’s stolen the very breath from his body. _Among other things._ Geralt tries not to look too pleased. This is what they’re here for, after all. There’s no need to ascribe feelings to anything, or to _anyone_.

Just pleasure.

That’s all that matters.

When the man finally returns to himself, fingers still tangled in Geralt’s hair, he stares down so quietly, so _silent_ _,_ Geralt wonders what he’s seeing—wonders what glamour-induced sight has replaced the monster kneeling before him. Wonders what his godling wants to _say_ , as he opens his mouth then quickly closes it, his throat working at words that never find their way out—a siren’s song gone silent.

 _It’s not real_ , Geralt wants to tell the man. _Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real. But it’s enough, for tonight._

_It has to be enough._

_  
  
* * *  
  
  
_ His godling isn’t the only person Geralt fucks that evening.

He is, however, the only person Geralt is drawn back to. Again and again, until the brightening sky finally banishes the guests back to their luxury palace quarters. It’s Geralt who slips away first this time. There’s a moment, though, before he leaves—before it ends.

His lips brush the shell of his godling’s ear, then lower still, tracing his jawline with gentle nips. They haven’t kissed yet. Their couplings have been frantic and needy, and utterly satisfying, but not intimate. Not in that way. Geralt doesn’t know why, only that he means to remedy it. His lips trail downward, what he’s seeking frighteningly clear to them both—only this time his godling denies him. Open palms flatten against Geralt’s chest, not pushing, not exactly, but keeping him at a distance as the man turns his head away. Geralt swallows and steps back; he _understands_. He knows what this is.

_And what it isn’t._

Later, as he rides past the outermost borders of Ard Carraigh, the morning sun beating down upon his back, Geralt tells himself he won’t return.

It’s becoming too complicated, this… _place_.

These _people_.

He doesn’t belong here.

  
  
* * *

  
There are few monsters left in Ard Carraigh. But when spring blooms once more and the mountain pathways clear, Geralt doesn’t hesitate to let the Path guide him back.

There’s no harm in double checking.

_No harm at all._

_  
* * *_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If that is Jaskier... wouldn't it be funny if Geralt _didn't_ know it was him, but Jaskier knew it was Geralt? From like, the very beginning? (⚆ᗝ⚆)
> 
> Here's my [writing blog](https://beelieve-y.tumblr.com/post/620211800980504576/like-glitter-and-gold-15%22) if you'd like to share this over on Tumblr.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Comments/Kudos are always super appreciated. Please validate my terrible life choices. ❤


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